


Cigarettes

by eponine119



Category: Lost
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Smoking, the 70s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponine119/pseuds/eponine119
Summary: Juliet wants to watch James smoke.
Relationships: Juliet Burke/James "Sawyer" Ford
Kudos: 16





	Cigarettes

Cigarettes  
by eponine119  
March 24-25, 2020

He's smoking again. 

Juliet never sees him do it, but its presence is there. She catches a whiff of smoke in his hair. She tastes nicotine on his tongue when he kisses her. 

She likes it, a little bit. 

It's exciting. Different. She leans in a little closer. He kisses her a little deeper.

The Dharma folk tend to be health-conscious, but Marlboros are readily available. Maybe if they were generic “Macho Cowboy” cigarettes in black and white packaging, he wouldn't have started again. And it's the 70s – you could smoke literally anywhere instead of huddling ten feet from a doorway. 

James doesn't smoke in the house because he's hiding it from her. Or thinks that he's hiding it from her, that she won't notice. She finds an excitement in this too: she knows something that he doesn't. 

Wondering why he's hiding it from her adds to the mystery of him, in general. They're good together, but in so many ways she doesn't understand him. Is he ashamed? Or does he think she'll disapprove? 

Has he ever been ashamed of anything? Has he ever cared about her approval? 

The discovery that the answers to these questions might be yes intrigues her. 

She thinks about catching him in the act. But when she considers following him around to happen upon him lighting up, it doesn't feel right. That's not what she wants. But curiosity overcomes her. She wants to see it, wants to bring it into the light. 

So one night as they lay breathless and sweaty in bed and she can practically feel his craving, she says, “I know.” 

He jolts so hard against her she can feel it, and she wonders what else he's hiding. “What do you know?” He recovers smoothly and strokes one long finger along her jaw, but he still sounds shaken. 

“I never understood why people smoke after sex, though,” she says. 

He falls back with a sigh. Caught. 

“You didn't answer my question.” 

“Cause it feels so damn good,” he says in a low voice, and gives her a look. It's dark, and seductive, and real. There's a part of him that's not good at feeling good unless there's darkness underneath.

“Smoke one now,” she invites. “I'll watch.” She winds the sheet around herself, covering up as she's asked him to reveal himself. 

He presses his lips together like he thinks she's putting him on, but he rolls over and swipes at the nightstand drawer. He fumbles out a cigarette and his lighter. 

One corner of her mouth turns up to think that they were there, so close, this whole time. She can feel him looking at her mouth. Her gaze flicks up to meet his, briefly, until he clicks the lighter in his hand. It's a cheap plastic Bic.

He puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it. Then he exhales and the smoke curls upward. The smokiness tickles her nose. The lit tip glows in the darkened room. 

It excites her and she's not sure why. Everything involved is hopelessly sexy – his mouth, his fingers, the way the cigarette rests loosely between them. The dimple in his cheek that appears when he pulls the smoke into his mouth. The guilt around his eyes. 

His gaze holds hers. Not questioning, or staring. Just looking at her. It's intense. Between his look and the spicy zing of her heart racing, she's breathless for a moment. 

“You gonna try'n make me quit?” he asks. 

“Can I?” Has she ever been able to make him do anything? 

The question earns her a devilish grin. Her very favorite kind. “Don't underestimate yourself.” He makes it sound like a throwaway, this admission that he cares what she thinks. “'sides, I ain't addicted.” 

“No?” 

“Was. When we crashed. Now it's just...casual.” Another measured inhale. His hand covers his mouth when he does. Then he lowers it, and holds the cigarette so the smoke flows away from her. It's effortless, almost a reflex for him.

“When did you start smoking?” she asks. 

“What is this, a job interview?” he cracks. She levels him with a look. He wets his lips and looks away. “Ninth grade.” 

“Why?” 

“You ever been to ninth grade? It sucks.” He takes another drag, like he's sipping the smoke. Then he graces her with the real answer. “My uncle died when I was fourteen. Brain tumor. It's not quick.” He looks at her. Daring her to say she's sorry. She doesn't take the bait; she knows better by now. She watches his walls go up. “I wanted to look cool and it felt good. I did a lot of things back then, tryin' to feel good.”

It's too simple an answer, after he started down a road to somewhere real and backtracked. She asks, “Did it work?” 

“Some of 'em,” he allows, without elaboration. He's using the water glass on the nighstand as an ashtray.

She still wants to know more. “Did you ever do drugs?” 

“Did you?” he shoots back. Deflecting, instinctively. 

She won't answer if he won't. But she lets him off the hook, perhaps a little afraid of what she'll find. Or maybe she knows him well enough by now to know his vices tend toward the mild – beer, smokes, self-hatred. 

He smokes in silence and she sees him relax. The tension goes out of his jaw. He's looking at her now, as closely as she's looking at him. She wonders what he's thinking. 

There's a rhythm to it. His mouth opens as his hand comes up. He breathes in. Takes the cigarette away between his first two fingers. Lets the smoke out. It's almost unconscious for him, so deeply ingrained as a habit. 

He looks down at the cigarette in his hand. 

“You wanna try?” he asks. 

“It's so bad for you,” she says. 

“So's chocolate but that ain't stopped you.” He inhales again. They watch each other. 

Her arousal is starting to be unbearable. Her skin is crying out for his touch, and all she wants is his mouth on hers. 

“Kiss me, James,” she says. Very seriously. 

He pauses, for one last drag. He stubs out the cigarette on the side of the water glass and drops the butt inside. 

Then both of his hands are sweeping her up. His left hand digs into her hair, pulling her head back for a better angle. His mouth slides over hers. He lets out a soft sound that she echoes and for a second they are breathing each other's air. 

The next kiss is harder. His tongue thrusts against hers and she tastes it, the smoke and the nicotine and the uniqueness that is him. She wants more, kissing him deeper. Her fingers touch his face, holding him, savoring the roughness of his scruff. 

His right hand is splayed along her upper back, crushing her tightly against his body. They're going to go again and she's ready, she's so ready. Her thighs part for him to move between them. She can feel the thread of her pulse. She gasps raggedly as he fills her. It doesn't take much more for her to come, or for him to follow her. 

“We should have secret fantasy night more often,” he teases her wickedly, stroking her hair. “Especially if next time it's my turn.” 

“What's your --” she starts to ask, but he interrupts. 

“That'd be telling.” But he's got something in mind. She can see the naked desire in his eyes. “I think I need another smoke.” 

“Don't you dare,” she says. 

He gives her a languid, amused look. “Guess I quit, then.” But he presses his mouth to her ear, hot and damp, and whispers, “We'll leave them in the drawer. Just in case.” 

(end)


End file.
